


On a plane, probably.

by Serenhawk



Series: Cockles in the Wild [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Fluff, M/M, That's it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6282424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flight home from VegasCon is too short to nap, but too long to stay awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a plane, probably.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hallemcready](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallemcready/gifts).



> This is for my gorgeous friend and co-Cockles Co-op admin Holli, architect of the Cockles marshmallow fight, in honor of her birthday.
> 
> It was prompted by the answer Jensen gave during the VegasCon afternoon panel when asked how did he and Jared know the one was The One. I'll never be over his deliberate, cryptic reply. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect intended to those whose names are used.

 

 

 

 

“Mish, wake up.”

Jensen gave him a nudge, then scrunched his chin to peer sideways, checking Misha wasn’t drooling on his shoulder. So far, so good, but it was only a matter of time and he’d already been out for an hour.

“Mish, wake the fuck up,” he murmured, more convincingly.

“Mmph.” Misha stirred, then settled even closer. “Don’ tell me what ta do,” he slurred.

Jensen decided drastic action was required, though he didn’t have it in his heart (or, frankly, his energy reserves) to launch a full scale tickle/horsebite/wet willy attack.

They were both shattered from the con weekend on the tail of being sick, aggravated somewhat by a little bit too much cavorting in between the city-hopping over the last few of weeks. Plus it was getting to that time of the year he _really_ needed a goddamn vacation; one that didn’t involve being trapped inside an airplane. Or turbulence, he thought, the fuselage shuddering as if on cue.

He gave Misha a peck on the forehead and pushed him upright, holding him with a palm to his chest. His friend reluctantly opened one eye. “I’m sorry man, I gotta take a piss," Jensen explained. "Soon as I’m done you can snore on me all you want.”

Misha let out an aquiescent noise and swivelled enough to allow Jensen room to exit the double seat they occupied. “I’ll be quick,” he assured, hoisting himself upward.

“Promises, promises,” Misha mumbled as Jensen leaned over him to step into the aisle.

Straddling his knees, Jensen braced on the headrest as he crowded into Misha's space “You know I’m a man of my word,” he challenged. He received a slow smile in reply, and answered in kind.

Something silent and satisfied passed between them. “Thanks,” he whispered as an afterthought, ending the moment, then straightened to step beyond their seats towards the rear of the plane.

The others on the private flight were silently self-absorbed and didn't appear to sense him walking past; Jared was listening to music, arms folded and making the most of a single seat where he could extend his long legs. Cliffy likewise wore headphones, but Jensen couldn't tell if he was dozing or just tuned out.  Rob looked one hundred percent out to it, arms folded and mouth sagging with a blanket pooling around his knees. Jensen bent to hitch it back over his waist, fussing lightly with the drape before he continued on.

The harsh florescent light in the toilet made him look wan when he caught a glimpse in the mirror, so he kept his lids clamped shut while he relieved himself, squinting only as strictly necessary to perform the tasks at hand. He could probably go to sleep standing up, he realized, as he swayed in the confines of the tiny square box. It wasn't late, and the flight not a long one -- they probably didn’t have much more than an hour to go -- but he hurried back to his seat so he could doze while he could.

Nearly toppling over Misha in order to plant himself, he reached for the blanket on the chair opposite and spread it casually over his hips. He'd assumed Misha to be asleep again, but out of the corner of his vision noticed him staring back with eyes almost black in the darkened cabin.

“What?” Jensen asked, a little defensive at being studied.

“Just thinking,” Misha replied, a soft smile gathering one cheek.

“Do you have to look at me so hard to do that?”

“Well I was thinking about you.”

“Uh-oh,” Jensen grumbled. “Do I wanna know?”

Misha huffed, his gaze dropping to his own hands resting between his thighs. He was mulling something over, if the cavalcade of expressions marching across his face was any indication. 

“I heard you, you know. Today,” he said eventually.

Jensen waited with the patience he'd learned to exercise when Misha was in a particularly reticent mood. He pinned Misha's eyes when they finally lifted back to his own, sharp and limitless. 

Misha took a sharp breath, the lethargy of a few minutes earlier appearing to have fallen away. “So which one am I… the safe certain one, or the leap of faith?” he asked with a quizzical arch to one brow.

Jensen's brain slotted the puzzle in place and a flash of panic danced in his chest. He'd stewed over what he'd said in the panel that afternoon, even though he'd been as considered as he was able. He'd feared he'd been a little too ambiguous, that he'd worn more of his heart on his sleeve than he should have. But then, part of him had chased the feeling of wanting to be a whole lot less ambiguous right to the edge of the cliff.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” he replied.

“Humor me,” Misha commanded, mercilessly.

Jensen resisted rolling his eyes. “Uh, actually, I was pretty certain. About this. With you.” Misha’s eyebrows shot up, then his face softened, warmth trickling slowly over his features. “Not that I wasn’t scared, or that there wasn’t a giant fucking leap involved, but...that wasn’t about _you_ ,” he added. “It was _because_ of you, I guess. I had to give up some ideas and perceptions. Ones that I could afford to lose."

Misha nodded slowly, absorbing, but held their stare, intensely enough it eventually made Jensen self conscious for a second time. “Anyway,” he started, ripping his eyes away, “I hope I didn’t say too much. I probably didn’t even make sense.”

“You made sense to me.” Misha replied, shifting a hand to tug at Jensen's little finger with his own. “I was just surprised. Pleasantly," he amended.

Jensen squeezed in return, then decisively wove their hands together and looked back. “Honesty may be out of the question, but that doesn’t mean I have to be dishonest,” he said, more vehement that he intended. “Not about the people that mean the most to me. You, and Dani, deserve better.”

Misha blinked, and this time was the first to look away. After a moment he dragged Jensen’s hand up to mouth over his knuckles, running the ridges between his lips. “Thank you,” he said simply after a few moments, pressing a smile into the back to Jensen’s hand - the kind of raw apprehensive smile that broke Jensen’s heart on the spot. There was too much packed into those two words, and in the sleepy but fierce glimmer in Misha’s eyes for him to acknowledge in his fragile, spent state. He pulled his hand away but squirmed closer, turning enough that he could bury his forehead first against Misha's shoulder, then when that wasn’t close enough, into the crook of his neck.

“If the third degree is over, can we sleep now?” he muttered.

“I’d rather be doing something else now,” Misha responded ominously, edging fingers under first the blanket then hem of Jensen’s t-shirt to tuck them acquisitively behind his belted waistband. They were cool from the plane’s air-conditioning and caused Jensen’s skin to flinch. He nearly complained, but then reasoned it was probably entirely on purpose.

“Can’t you wait ‘til we get home?  Then you can molest me all you want,” he suggested truthfully, knocking their knees together and snuggling into Misha’s lapel.

“Is that a promise?” Misha asked, slouching to sink them both lower and their seats, hidden from their companions. He began drifting his offending hand over Jensen’s crotch to glide lengths from knee to knee along his inseam.

“Man o’ my word, ‘member?” Jensen mumbled back. He took a deep breath and began to zone out to the hum of the engines and the long slow caresses that bordered just on the arousing side of soothing.

After a few minutes he found his own hand walking across Misha’s stomach to burrow under his layers in search of the bare skin at his hip. _Thank fuck for charter flights,_ he thinks, unable to resist the impulse to do the same with his lips and Misha’s throat. Misha twisted closer, facing them a little more, then cupped Jensen through his jeans and circled a thumb over the base of his fly.

“You’re pure evil,” Jensen whispered, nosing under his collar. He wasn’t turned on enough to push into the pressure of Misha’s hand, but the lazy fondling was getting him there. He was like this when he was over-tired: hopelessly responsive to touch, and Misha knew exactly how to use it to ease him from wired exhaustion to tranquilized, all while walking the knife edge of craving.

Misha just puffed against his temple, rightly dismissing the accusation as token resistance.

Jensen ran his fingers up Misha’s torso and circled them under his collar to hold his neck firm against the sucking kiss he began placing there, to a satisfying short gasp from his companion. However his middle finger brushed something out of place and he halted once he identified the texture.

He pulled the small object out and sat up enough to hold it in front of Misha’s face. Misha peered at it, squinting in the gloom to identify the small white cube. “A marshmallow?”

Jensen grinned. “You’re full of hidden treasures.”

“How did--?” Misha started, then frowned. “Wait, I got changed…” he trailed off again, thoroughly confused.

“They were going everywhere. Musta been in the neck of your t-shirt?” Jensen theorized.

“This whole time?”

Jensen shrugged. “I guess,” he concluded, squishing it between his thumb and forefinger.

Misha continued to look perplexed, then pounced with his mouth over the weaponzied sweet, an unexpected passenger from a photo session that afternoon. He lifted it from Jensen’s grasp with a prolonged swirl of his tongue and sucked on Jensen's fingers for much longer than was necessary.

“Evil,” Jensen reiterated with a small shake of his head, keenly watching him swallow.

“That’s for hanging my clothes from the ceiling,” Misha volleyed in return. “Don’t even try to deny it was you.”

Jensen shrugged, unapologetic, but hastily changed the subject. “Fair point. Which reminds me, I’m taking you shopping this week. I saw that shirt yesterday when you took it off. You’re lucky I didn’t throw it in the trash while you were in the bathroom.”

Misha widened his eyes, pretending to be outraged. “ _You’re_ lucky you didn’t. If you’d had, I would’ve had to have words.”

“Oooh, scary,” Jensen said mockingly.

“Don’t fucking test me, Jackles.”

Jensen wiggled his eyebrows and plastered a grin across his face.

Misha sighed. “Who’s evil now?” he accused, easing back against his chair in defeat.

“What did you say earlier? Birds of a feather-- “

“You watched?” Misha turned to him, disbelieving.

“Of course,” he replied. “I had to see my handiwork.” Misha scrunched his face in annoyance. “You're so cute when you're tired," Jensen added fondly, "and I felt bad for messing with you. I mean, you nearly confused yourself, mixing idioms and axioms.”

Misha raised a dissatisfied eyebrow. “I did send Jared back to help you,” Jensen revised, then laced their fingers together once more by way of apology at Misha's downcast expression.  

Next thing he knew, Misha had crossed the space between them to push him back against his headrest with a kiss; bruising and inelegant to begin with before bleeding into one luxuriously tender, and uncharacteristically yielding. Jensen chased Misha's suddenly diffident tongue as he pulled away, who then ended the exchange with a scritch in the short hair at the back of Jensen's neck.

“What was that for?” Jensen asked once he'd taken a breath.

The reply was evasive. “Just keeping you on your toes."

"Mmhm," Jensen responded, a not entirely unpleasant mix of groggy and light-headed. He let his cheek lower to Misha's shoulder again. "Promise me you always will, Mish."

"I'm not sure my word is as good as yours," Misha objected softly.

Jensen closed his eyes and shifted, making himself comfortable against the folds of his friend's clothes. As comfortable as he could in yet another airplane, adding belatedly "It's good enough for me."

 

 

~ Fin ~

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't ship Benedackles. I swear. Not even a lil' bit.


End file.
